Disclaimer: I do not own Hitman or any of the characters in the game or movie. If I did, I would hug 47 on a regular basis.

47 was a man with a number, not a name. He had not experienced a mother tenderly calling him to dinner, had not had a father whisper his name with a good night kiss, and though he had not been celibate his entire life, he had never known a woman crying out his name in the heat of passion. Indeed the few women he'd been with had been the discreet variety, paid to make appropriate noises at appropriate times and say nothing afterward.

Did a name sound different as it fell from the lips of a loved one between kisses? Did the lack of one make him less human, detracting from his humanity as much as the isolating profession he'd be groomed for? When he made a plan, he calculated, never deviated. Nika was a random equation in his calculations; he was not supposed to allow that. He was supposed to be ruthless, emotionless, permanently detached from all connections and distractions... including the one asleep on the other side of the door. Especially that one.

While she had slumbered in the near coma of the sedated, 47 had passed a long night alone. Killing Price so he could infiltrate an underground weapons lair, assassinating Udre in a quid pro quo for a CIA man, trying to stay one step ahead of The Organization trying to kill him, and being blindsided by ponderings of a dark and brooding tenor. Fellow hitmen, boys he'd grown up with, the closest thing he had to brothers were drawn against him, turned by the loyalty he was beginning to question. What kind of life was he living?

The automated lock let out a soft whir as he entered the suite, determined to derail that train of thought. The malignant musings clung to him like creeper vines as he let the door close with a barely audible snick. Gloves used to keep prints to a minimum found a home on the small chest at the foot of the bed.

He knew the delivered dosage to the micro-liter, so he was not surprised that Nika still slept; what struck him was the way she curled in her sleep, laying softly on her side as though cuddling a teddybear. This was not a woman with whom one associated innocence, yet the picture before him was gentle & appealing. Bedclothes shifted down to her waist in the night left too much of her naked flesh revealed, and he sat down on the edge of bed to loosen his suddenly constrictive starched shirt and signature scarlet tie. An impenetrably dark gaze lingered on her pale skin for just a moment before fixing on a point above the tastefully bland artwork on the far wall, some soothing neutral landscape currently caressed by the weak fingers of dawn that stole through the windows. His own hand gripped the abandoned covers and returned them to a safe point just below her shoulder.

The training that allowed him to know where anything and anyone was in a given moment also provided him a mental display of his facial expression. It rarely changed except in small ways- eyebrows up instead of down to imitate surprise (his eyes widened from true shock), smiles that never reached his eyes (genuine pleasure caused his temples to tighten), and so on- but he knew what each expression felt like. The mirror in his mind's eye reflected conflict, an almost saddened rundown air, and a transient glimpse of the human element he frequently buried. A deep sigh escaped him as he shut his eyes to the image, slowly stood and began to divest himself of his uniform. Overcoat relegated to the closet, after rolling it off his shoulders like a nascent concern; shoes unlaced and removed, placed in military alignment with the sofa's edge; trademark necktie tugged from beneath collar and folded on end table.

He stalked noiselessly to the bathroom, dress socks shielding his feet from the chilled marble tiles as he brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face. A luxuriously high thread count towel devoured the droplets and gently buffed his skin to a clean glow before returning to its holder, carefully folded and left in darkness.

A grey laptop emblazoned with the Organization's abstract Fleur-de-lis beckoned on the table; 47 should be working, using contacts and connections to map out his next move... but as a bone-deep weariness invaded him, his gaze drew on Nika, and his feet carried him along. Remaining outside the covers, he crawled in beside her, moving slowly despite the certainty she would not awaken. A breath he was unaware he'd been holding eased out as he inched closer and wrapped her in his arms. He laid no real weight on her, just a soft warm pressure on her back as one arm slipped under her pillow, the other molding along hers as he drew close and nestled the soft skin of her shoulder beneath his chin.

Peace is a concept foreign to an assassin, but the man bearing the sleeping beauty in his arms somehow identifies the alien sensation winding lightly as a lover's embrace as just that. It is ephemeral as the fog of sleep enveloping him, a tentative serenity that cannot be fully embraced, yet still soothes and restores. He uses his training to wake up exactly 10 minutes before the sedative is due to wear off. Slipping from the bed unnoticed, he repairs to the bathroom to shower and outfit himself as 47 once more.

She wakes and stretches, feeling a strange sensation of warmth in the void behind her, recalling the strange impossible dream where he had joined her in bed and kept her safe in his arms. She accoutres quickly, and is straightening out her dress (a simple white affair, sexy but more stylish) when 47 emerges like a sorcerer in a cloud of steam. The red silk tie, draped over a chair back to preserve its unblemished state, is rapidly applied to the emerging aspect. His eyes pin her as he knots the fabric the way he has to have done hundreds of times before without incident... except his fingers are suddenly unable to manipulate the cloth into its order. Drawing a deep breath, he undoes the botched contortion and tries again.

Just as he determines to draw off the offending article and start over with a new one, she approaches with a shy smile, asking wordlessly for permission to take over. He stands still, relinquishing himself to her hands with an answering smile when she finally raises her eyes to his. In less than a minute, his look is completed with a perfect Shelby knot; he's barely had time to sniff the soft cloud of her essence that still bears a trace of her white jasmine cologne. He returns the favor by securing the clasp of her necklace for her; her palm alights on his chest a scant inch from her finishing touch as she turns to thank him. His hand is warm as it covers hers, drawing it up a few diagonal inches and pressing gently so she can feel the soft tattoo of his heartbeat.

It's almost domestic, a pseudo normal couple getting ready for their day, although they're as far from the norm as you could get. A whore and a hitman; it would never work… except in small moments like these.

Author's Note: One of the ideas that burst forth when re-watching Hitman the other night. I know it diverges a bit, but he looks like he needs some love in that scene. R&R, and as always, enjoy.

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